Wind
The wind leaves its scent on
my brown towel,
the one that used to smell of
boxes and time and dormancy
Revival. Reawakening.
I am still unpacking my bags,
still smelling the smells of
the past.
Untitled
What will we do with you?
Your unkempt hair
Your bitten nails
Your inappropriate dreams
Monday, January 17, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
